The Czar Goes Underground
by jlgmetsrule
Summary: This is a continuation of Dostoyevsky's Notes from Underground that takes place seventeen years after the original story.


III.

Underground Again

I.

Seventeen years have done me good. They really have. My philosophy has been substantiated. I know where I've come from and where I'm going. I now know why I've done all that I have done. It took me two years to approach that officer – it doesn't matter! He still remembers me, to this very day! He is sitting behind his desk in the provinces, his thoughts consumed by me. Zverkov has gone away a long time ago. I never really wanted to hurt my former classmates. Sure, they caused my some pain, some spite, some rage. But that was a long time ago. I surely never wanted to hurt them. As for Liza, I didn't want to see her again anyway. I mean, it didn't bother me that she came to my corner. Why should I, a respectable man, be threatened by a simple woman of the evening? I obviously was not. But I didn't want her to stay around. What could I get from her that I myself didn't already have? I was glad when she left my corner. I was never going to follow her; I simply went outside to see how the weather was. It all makes perfect sense right now. I understand everything.

II.

I haven't been outside since I last wrote these notes. What reason would I have for going outside? It's miserable, it's cold, and it's dank. When I look outside, my stomach turns. Besides, if I go outside, I have to deal with people. People suck. I've dealt with enough of them in my day. I went to school with a bunch of cretins. I worked in the civil service with sycophantic weasels. Every time I interact with a person, my willingness to interact again significantly decreases. People are selfish – they'll do anything that they think will give them a personal advantage. Everyone is always in competition; therefore, any seemingly kind act must be taken with a grain of salt. I no longer allow people to be nice to me. I am too smart to let their polite advances take advantage of me. When somebody approaches me, I immediately tell them off. Sure, I am mean, but I don't care. Our possible friendship would have to end sooner or later. It might as well not even get started. And I love to look at their smiling facades as I tell them off. They don't know how to react. They go from smiling to having a blank look. Their blank look soon becomes a frown. Finally, they walk away with a smirk. It's as if they think they're better than me. They are convinced of their superiority. But they're not. I'm better than them. I have all the answers. They snivel with their colleagues, yet I know what's really going on. I won't be used. I won't be usurped. I won't be bullied. I will stand by myself. I'll be my own man. They've got nothing on me.

III.

Then again, that one of the reason's that I don't really hate people. People have their own thoughts and their own opinions. They are able to say when they don't like something. People act as they please. They can be rational or irrational; they can be sane or insane. Personally, I am insane, but completely rational. That is why you shouldn't read these notes or take seriously anything that's in them. In fact, these notes aren't for anybody to read. Anybody reading these should have his examined. If you are reading this right now, you are a hopeless wretch. And no, there is no small group of you that I like and admire. I care about nobody. But, I digress, a rarity in these notes. I'm glad humanity still has some spunk left in it. For as much as I rail against people – and I do hate them – I like that there's still life in most humans. I'm glad I can choose to live outside the world, outside the realm of reality, and nobody can stop me. Nobody is forcing me to live in a collective. There is no force that compels me to befriend the masses. And it's a good thing, too. Human beings aren't meant to live in complete harmony. In fact, it's impossible for humans to live in absolute tranquility. Humans aren't perfect, and it's better that way. I certainly would not want robots walking around, predictably doing the same thing over and over again. That would be boring. It would be more boring that way than staying underground for forty years. At least now I get the thrill of non-conformity, the thrill of fulfilling my highest desire, which happens to be completely irrational. If everyone was a robot, they'd have to kill me. I won't go over to their side. I'll never turn into one of them. The underground is my home. If one day they get control of everyone, the only way I'd leave my corner would be in a body bag. They can get control of everybody else. They can insert the chip in each person's brain. But not me. Never me. I don't care if I'm the last one left. I'm never going away. And right now, there are others, too. I'm not the only one. The underground will live forever because it is a part of each person. There is an underground spirit in each person's soul. I know this, of course, because I know everything. Therefore, right here, right now, I urge each of you to connect with that part of you that yearns for freedom and revenge. Go underground. Don't bother me, of course, because I'd attack you so fast that you wouldn't know what hit you. You would be verbally abused. Don't take it personally. I hate you without knowing you, without meeting you. So, don't come to me. But go underground yourself. Find your own little corner. There's a place for each of you.

IV.

I don't believe in science or math. It's not that I hate scientists or mathematicians more than everybody else. I despise all people equally. It's just that I can't believe in something that is proven, just because of the fact that it is proven. Therefore, I disbelieve out of spite. I don't believe because everybody else believes. This is a special privilege, one that only the insane can enjoy. After all, who, in today's world, can deny the rationality of that which has been proved? Scientists give explanations for everything that happens in life. They can rationalize everything. Perhaps nature is this way. I don't know. I don't pretend to be a part of nature. But when humans get involved, not everything can be rationalized. A person may walk to the store a certain way one day and then walk there a different way the next. Both ways can take an equal amount of time, but a human being will randomly change his route from one day to the next. You can't explain that with science. "What a simple example," you say. "I can't believe you are so ignorant. If you record each day what route this person takes, at the end of one month you will see a pattern develop. You can then use this pattern to predict where he will walk the next month." You think you are so smart, my outspoken readers. You think you have all the answers. Ah, but you underestimate me! I know that this person would take a random route because I would take a random route. I am a human, am I not? Or would you vile swine take that away from me too! I am a human and I would take a random route every day simply because I am human. Therefore, the idea is not that I as a human am proving that there is no pattern in such an activity; rather the idea is that the presence or lack thereof of a pattern proves whether or not I am a human being. If I was a robot (as all of you would have me become), there would be an exact pattern. Because there isn't a pattern, it is proof that I am indeed human, which is contrary to popular belief, I am sure. Therefore, after our little store, you can see that I disbelieve because I know it, on one level or another, to be untrue. The idea that I am alone on this issue is the reason why I say I disagree out of spite. If you were to visit me in my corner (which I strongly discourage, as you know my taste for making friends), you would see blank white walls. Well, they would be blank, with the exception of the phrase "two times two equals five" that is scribbled all over the place. Is this true? Who knows! I may as well have written that two times two equals one hundred seven. All I know is that I don't believe that two times two equals four. This hasn't been proven to me, and I disagree out of spite. I am the only one who feels this way; therefore, I must continue to feel this way for the simple sake of doing so. I guess you can say that I'm afraid to believe. Well, you're actually right for once, God knows how. I'm afraid that because you can reduce two plus two to mathematical terms, you will then try to reduce all of human existence to the same reasoned argument. Well, you can't! I won't let you!

I cannot continue to write these notes. I constantly discuss the same meaningless drivel, and I've had enough. Who knows when I will write again!

IV.

Apropos of the Beautiful and Sublime

I.

There is something of little importance which I will tell you about because I think you, my intolerable reader, will find an interest in it. The other day Czar Alexander II was killed by an assassin in St. Petersburg. The killer used hand-made grenades. Well, that's that. That's all there is to tell. The czar was killed, but I don't care. What difference does it make in my life? The true man of the underground does not care what real-world politics are because he rejects the real world. Was the czar doing a good job? I suppose so. He left me alone, that's all I care about. I didn't have to worry about him invading my corner. He led his life, and I led mine. "But, he was a tyrant," you tell me. I tell you that I do not care. All men are selfish and out for their own self-interest. I have been telling you this for a long time. As such, a man who is born into power cannot be expected to do anything else but to wield it in such a way as is to his advantage. I do not know how I would rule if I had power, but I do know that I would not surrender it. Therefore, I cannot expect any great changes, even if I thought that they should take place. Of course, I don't think we need any changes. I hate people, as I have already discussed, so why should I want to help them? As for the murderer, I also don't have much of an opinion. If you want me to be sympathetic to his position, then I cannot do that. He wants to break down society, to put an end to what we now have and replace it with something that is brand new. I cannot help but wonder why. As much as I criticize our society, there is little that I believe a new leader would be able to improve. For better or for worse, one cannot change human nature. I have accepted this. While I hate people and have attempted to escape from them, I love the tenacity of humanity. How can I hate people and then love them at the same time? It's actually quite simple – as I've already said, I am insane. I do, however, have some sympathy for the killer. He acted in a way that asserts individualism. His dared to make a drastic move and the spiteful part of my nature cannot help but admire such a person. At least the murderer insists on being human. People, in general, persist in conflicting with one another. For the sake of the human spirit, this must never end.

II.

There is something else which I hesitate to report but which I am sure you will slobber all over. On the street the other day I happened to run into an old friend of mine from the civil service. Well, this person, whose name is Strosnikov, was hardly a friend. I have never had nor wanted to have a friend. Strosnikov was an acquaintance of mine. I had heard, through various sources (I made it outside a few times a year) that he had made it fairly high up in the civil service. At this point, although he was not of the nobility, he was working in the Winter Palace. Therefore, he was in relatively close proximity to the czar. What an obsequious rat! God only knows how much he had to give of himself, of his own personality, to reach a position that high. I wouldn't be surprised if he had to sell his soul. But, he did, and, each person must make his individual choices, even if they are wretched. When I ran into Strosnikov earlier in the week, I felt compelled, having heard of the assassination, to inquire as to what he knew of the event. When I first approached him, it was already later in the day, as for some reason he did not hear me call his name earlier. (I was right next to him, but perhaps his hearing has suffered after all these years.) I nearly had to bump into him to have him realize that I was trying to get his attention. Because I have nothing else to do, I memorized the conversation verbatim:

"Andrey Vladimirovich, it is good to see you!" I needed to make him feel important if I was to use him to get information.

"From where do I know you?" Perhaps his eyesight was going with his hearing!

"We worked in the civil service together, in the T province."

"Ah, yes. What is it that you want?" Of course he remembers me!

"Well, I wanted to know more information on the assassination. What an unfortunate event!"

"Our leader was killed. What else is it that you want to know!" Obviously Strosnikov was late to an official meeting.

"I was wondering if there was to be an official memorial service."

"Of course, how could we not honor him?"

"When will this happen? Surely you do not mind if I attend."

"I suppose not. It will be tomorrow, at noon, on the grounds of the Winter Palace."

"Thank you, I look forward to seeing you there!"

As he pushed past me, I immediately regretted my decision to attend the czar's memorial service. What use could I, an underground man, have with a service for a person whom I did not know and did not care to know? However, it was impossible for me to resist the eager invitation of Strosnikov. I knew he would take it as a personal slight if I did not attend!

I needed to get ready for the service. Surely, Strosnikov would notice and judge what I wore. Somehow, I found an adequate outfit. I even, luckily, came across a collar of German beaver that was still in good condition! I didn't want to miss the event, so I awoke at six in the morning to prepare and be there in time. I wanted to be early so as not to interrupt; I arrived at eleven o'clock. Seeing only royal guards I doubled back and returned three quarters of an hour later. Such guards would not know I was associated with such a man as Strosnikov! When I finally entered the palace grounds, I took a seat from among the chairs assembled that was somewhere in the middle – I didn't want to overstep my place. I saved a seat for Strosnikov as I did not yet see him. How quickly the seats filled up! Strosnikov arrived five minutes before the hour and strode towards the front area of seats – what a high-ranking official he is!

III.

As the clock struck noon and a few more minutes elapsed, all the seats filled up, and I was forced to give up the seat I had been saving. Just as the ceremony was beginning, a woman forced her way into the newly-opened seat. What an interesting character! A middle aged woman, she looked rather disheveled for a memorial service. Her long, black hair was allowed to flow freely down her back. Her face, without any makeup, looked simple, but her eyes were engaging. Her dress was unusually short – it barely reached her knees. What a disgrace! I hated her the moment I laid eyes on her. How dare she arrive at the czar's remembrance service dressed as though she was tending to her pigs! During the service, she even showed her emotions aloud. She laughed and she cried so loud that even the row behind us could hear – the nerve of her! After the service, she deigned to speak to me. I was so embarrassed to speak with her that our conversation will forever be ingrained in my memory:

"Hi," she said, as a smile crossed her lips.

"Hello," I replied scornfully, wondering how this stranger could greet me so informally.

"Where are you from?" she asked hopefully.

"Around here," I offered cautiously.

"I'm not," she said succinctly.

I desperately wanted to extricate myself from this situation, but I could not think of a polite way to do so.

"What do you do?" she inquired politely.

"Nothing. I regret my existence," I answered truthfully.

"I used to run a shoemaking cooperative. It failed. Why are you here?"

She seemed to be amused with our conversation. I loathed her with all my heart and soul.

"I have a friend in the civil service," I replied dutifully.

"I had nothing else to do. I was curious. What are you doing for dinner tonight?"

Her question hit me like a ton of bricks. I attempted to pull the dagger from my heart.

"Nothing." Why didn't I lie?

"Let's eat together. There's a place on L Street. Seven o'clock. What was your name?"

I told her, through clenched teeth.

"I'm Masha Lubovna. See you tonight."

I stood there breathless as I watched her slender figure disappear in the throng of mourners. This proposed meeting disturbed my inner being. How could I not protest? How could I not speak up? Why didn't I just walk away? As I walked back to my corner, I convinced myself that I would not go. I don't know who this person is, I have no connection to her, and therefore there is nothing compelling me to go through with this unfortunate rendezvous. I'll just stay underground. Still, there was something… I cannot even explain it, for you would laugh at me. There was some force that compelled me to go. I cursed myself, but I got ready. I had no decent clothes besides those which I had worn to the service, so I kept them on. I knew she wouldn't care. As I found a cabby, I promised myself that I would arrive, tell her off for this improper invitation, and leave. I stepped out of the cab to see her already waiting for me. Her dress was shorter.

"Hi."

"Hi Masha Lubovna, it's so good to see you again." Those words were false, yet true.

We found a table and sat down to eat.

"Do you have a family?" she wondered aloud.

"No."

"Me neither. What do you think of the recent changes in society?"

"I'm not affected by them."

"Me neither."

I was curiously being drawn into the conversation. I had to get out of there. First, I had to ask what was on my mind.

"Why did you ask me here?"

"Why not? I didn't have anybody to eat with, but, other than that, it was completely whimsical."

"Excuse me."

I went to the men's room to look in the mirror. What was I doing? I knew that I wasn't having a good time, but still… The smell of smoke ended my daydream. I ran to the door. I opened it, and was immediately hurled backwards by a thick plume of black smoke. I dropped to my knees. I looked behind me. There was a window from where I could escape. Instead, I crawled into the fire. I knew I had to save Masha. I don't know what possessed me, and I regret it to this day! What was going through my mind that made me want to save a woman whom I had not known even for one day? Why would I risk myself to save a person I didn't know, a person who meant nothing to me, when I hated people in general? How could it be to my advantage to crawl through fire when I could have saved myself easily? To this very day, I do not understand it. I can only attribute it to the sip of wine I took before I excused myself. I crawled towards our table. I could see just enough to make out Masha's body slouching in her seat. I picked her up; I took her limp form in my arms. I held my breath, stood up straight, and ran for the main exit. As I reached the sidewalk, I looked at Masha. Her face had a slight smile. As I looked into her eyes, forever still, I knew that her gentle face would never again be disturbed by the rough winds of life.


End file.
